There Can Be Only One
by Youlookgoodinleather
Summary: In a time of upheaval, uncertainty and change, there is a clamour to the claim of who is the one true Dragonborn, the saviour of the world. Amongst political and social struggles however, the pieces in this game of real world chess have to sift through their true allies and those who wish for something more. Then of course, there are the dragons. Multi!OC story.
1. Chapter 1 - Nalimir - Last Favour

**A/N: Thank you to Y-Ko for Beta-ing this, and Adam Nightingale for kicking my butt into actually writing some Skyrim ff :) Hope you enjoy reading!**

_Nalimir_

It felt odd, returning to these steps after six long years. It was the first time in his life that he could remember feeling cold here. Years of living in the warmer regions of Skyrim and all the other providences he had visited had softened him. As he began the climb of the seven thousand steps up to Higher Hrothgar, Nalimir bit down on his lower lip and tried to ignore the fact that he was bloody freezing.

He ignored all of the inscribed monuments and headstones, having read them all a hundred times over. Nalimir had no problem with the length of the journey and made it to the front of Hrothgar in good time, the cold bringing with it a heavy sense of nostalgia. Everything was so familiar yet half forgotten, the ghosts of his childhood seeming so distant now. It didn't help that the whole place seemed frozen in time, entirely disconnected from the rest of the world. But this wasn't his home anymore, and no matter what the Greybeards had to say, it never would be again.

Climbing the stairs to the entrance, he hesitated for a moment before taking a steadying breath. Facing them now shouldn't be that difficult; he was a grown man for pity's sake and back in the time when he had left he had possessed every right to make his own decisions, no longer a whimsical child. Still, they had once been for all intents and purposes, his family. Leaving them hadn't been easy, no matter what kind of monster they thought he'd become.

His knocks echoed in the hollow halls of the building, resonating and growing. Nalimir withdrew his hand and dropped it back to his side, resting it ever so subtly against the handle of the dagger concealed under his simple black cloak. The Greybeards were not violent people, but they did not make easy enemies. He felt safer with a weapon at hand.

It took some time, but eventually the great iron door swung back. Arngeir stood in the open doorway, looking old, though not a day older than when Nalimir had last seen him. The Greybeards had a seemingly ageless seniority. Looking up at him from under hooded, drooping eyelids, the elder of the Greybeards took his time in examining the wood elf stood on his doorstep, not speaking as he chose instead to scrutinise him.

Finally, his look of meditation melted into a kind, and unexpected smile. "Nalimir, it has been too long," Arngeir greeted him gently, nodding in respect. Nalimir, totally unprepared, paused for a moment before nodding back at the man, bringing one hand across his chest, and bowing slightly, a gesture he had picked up when he'd last lived here as a student of the Greybeards.

"It is good to see you again," the old man continued, his voice the same thunderous whisper it had always been. It shook through Nalimir like a mother's embrace, but the comfort was tainted by the questions in the back of his mind.

"I came to answer your summons," Nalimir pointed out, keeping his tone formal even as he returned the man's smile.

"Thank you, child, for coming." Nalimir bristled slightly at being called a "child", but it was to be expected, for he was still the only youth here.

Arngeir stepped back and allowed him through. Eyes wide in curiosity and caution, Nalimir returned to the hold that had housed him all his childhood. It had the same walls, the same beautiful architecture, and he could still recall all the secret passages, the nooks and crannies into which you could disappear into for days on end without being discovered, but it seemed different now—colder and empty.

None of the other Greybeards had come to greet him, but that was to be expected. He had shamed them, or at the very least displeased them, so a big traditional family reunion would have been too much to ask. "The others apologise for their absence, as they are all in deep meditation." Arngeir made their excuses as he ushered him through the vast and seemingly unending corridors of the monastery, the perfect way to give their bodies something to do to fill the awkward silences that were inevitably to come.

"How have you been, Nalimir?" Arngeir inquired politely, probably in an attempt to relax him.

"Well, thank you. I was, however, surprised by your summoning." He tried to steer the conversation back to his purpose in coming here; he did not want to stay here longer than was needed. The nostalgia was too thick and the emotions too deeply woven into this place.

"I am glad to hear you are doing well; we have not seen you in so long," Arngeir mumbled, more to himself than to Nalimir, ignoring Nalimir's attempts to try and get on-topic. Having lived with them through-out his childhood, Nalimir knew better than anyone just how tricky old men could be when you tried to hold a simple conversation with them; they had a habit of derailing themselves. Still, something in his tone and words struck a chord in Nalimir and he grimaced; despite his friendly smiles, Arngeir was still going to guilt him for his actions.

"I apologise for not visiting; I did not think I was welcome," Nalimir replied tightly, his hand twitching towards the dagger hilt again. He felt oddly vulnerable despite being armed, walking next to a man he should have trusted as he once had with his life.

The old man shook his head and smiled sadly to himself. "Things did not go as planned with you, child. We did not wish to cause such tensions between us, but you were at a difficult age. I confess that we did not handle it well. Old men have little patience for the vigour of young ones; I expect it might be a sort of envy." He spoke with a lilted smile and a distant look as he gazed at no spot in particular on the floor. The pair continued walking gradually down the corridor, occasionally passing through the bright slits of light that came in from the white wonderland of snow-covered shining ground outside. Despite the weather, it was always bright here, the snow reflecting that sunlight that made it through the blizzards.

They continued in thoughtful silence for a moment before Nalimir couldn't take it any longer, his desperation to leave mounting. Among the monks, Nalimir felt so young and ignorant, and the heavy stone of the walls became oddly suffocating. "Why did you summon me, Arngeir?" he asked bluntly in an attempt to get even Arngeir to be straight with him, glancing towards the old man.

Sighing, Arngeir raised his eyes from the floor and looked straight ahead before them, avoiding Nalimir's gaze. "Paarthumax has spoken, Nalimir," he informed him, his expression unreadable. "No doubt you have heard the growing rumours and fears amongst the people of Skyrim, as tales of Dragons swell and people speak of the end of the world."

"There are always tales of dragons, people seem rather fixated on them," Nalimir countered quickly, even though he knew it was stupid. It was clear something had occurred, otherwise they would not have summoned him.

"Paarthumax has told us that a Dovahkiin has been born into the world for some time now, but it is only now, in a time when the bones of Dragons do indeed find new life that the Dovahkiin's power will awaken. The age of the Dragonborn has come once again." Arngeir spoke with great grandeur, but also solemnly. Having grown up on tales of the Dragonborn, of the Way of the Voice and of the time of Dragons, Nalimir's automatic reaction was not one of doubt or shock. He had no doubt in the power of Dragons, having been the student to one for many years of his life.

Thinking it over to himself for a moment, Nalimir chewed the inside of his cheek and then spoke. "It is not me."

"No Nalimir, it is not you. You have always showed the greatest promise in your talent with the Thu'um, but you are not the Dovahkiin."

Studying him for a moment, rerunning his speech over in his head, Nalimir considered what he'd been told. "You know who it is," he realised aloud, admittedly surprised, for despite his knack for hearing rumors, he had heard none of a Dragonborn being found.

"We do, for Paarthumax has named one," Arngeir confirmed, pausing once more before continuing, "and we know where he currently resides."

Nalimir would have asked what on Nirn all this had to do with him, a failed student of the Way of the Voice, but he knew that the old man would explain it eventually, and so he kept quiet. "He is but a child still, only fourteen or so years of age, open to being moulded and changed by those who would try to control him. In these times of change and upheaval, a boy who is the Dragonborn is in the greatest danger imaginable, both from those who wish to use him and those who wish to destroy him."

Nalimir could see exactly where this was going. "He has had no training as far as our knowledge goes, no way of defending himself and no family to speak of. He is completely vulnerable." Arngeir was positively milking it now. "Nalimir, whilst we are an order of peace and we do not condone the lifestyle you have chosen, we do have a realistic perspective on that which is necessary. We understand why you chose the path that you did, and we respect you for your independence."

"We ask of you only one favour in return for the years you spent as a student here: protect this child, for he may well be the only hope this world has. And in the wrong hands, an impressionable Dragonborn could be the fuel for the end of our world rather than the salvation. He is untrained in the way of the voice, and you are more gifted and well-learned in the Thu'um than all of the monks here put together. If you cannot bring him back to Hrothgar, his training will fall to you. Please, for all that you used to stand for, for all of us, find and nurture this child."

Nalimir was silent for a long time before responding. "You are asking quite a thing of me, Arngeir," he said finally, still trying to process just what was being asked of him. "I am no parent." He understood what the return of Dragons signified, the end of the world, but he was no longer an adherent of the Way of the Voice, he no longer abided by the Greybeards, and in all honesty, he wished to have nothing to do with them.

"Paarthmax has spoken Nalimir, and you know that he does not lie. He has spoken of one Dragonborn, one individual capable of saving this world from the oncoming dangers. A boy such as this cannot hope to achieve such greatness without a guiding hand and the proper training." Arngeir was more passionate than Nalimir had ever heard him before, even desperate. He had once viewed this man as his father; he couldn't say no.

"Where does the boy currently live?" He questioned, finally giving up on talking himself out of this.

"Riften. He dwells in the Ratways with the thieves and the liars." Upon hearing this, a crooked and rare smile split across Nalimir's lips and he snorted.

"If that is true then he will be no wide-eyed vulnerable boy."

"Nevertheless, he will be a boy."

"I have business in Riften in the early days of Rains hand," Nalimir conceded slowly, and Arngeir glanced over at him; he knew exactly what he meant by "business". "I shall search for the boy then, if he does indeed exist. What is the child's name?" He asked as they drew to a halt, having conveniently arrived back in the entrance hall. Arngeir had known he'd convince him so easily all along. Old men were certainly sly.

"Mog."

"Family name?"

"He does not use one."

"I shall find your Mog then," Nalimir vowed. Reluctant as he was, it was his duty. After everything he owed to these people and all he had done to disappoint them, he owed them this one final act of benevolence, "and no harm shall come to him."


	2. Chapter 2 - Mog - Sewer Rats

_Mog_

"Dark times lie ahead!"

"I'd like five please."

"Skooma man, I said I needed skooma! You can't just leave me hanging, come on, I'll give my payment next week."

Riften's market place that filled the grand plaza was, as always, an odd mix of quiet and noise. People shouted and gossiped and went about their daily business, all whilst watching their backs, their actions hurried and their words hasty.

"I want to leave," snipped a middle-aged Imperial woman dressed in modest finery to her husband as they paced around the stalls, looking over the wares with beady eyes. They were clearly tourists to the city.

"Will you stop being paranoid? You know as well as I do that the Thieves Guild no longer holds any power here," her husband snapped back in an agitated, exasperated tone.

Crouched down behind some sacks of wheat, concealed out of sight from the rest of the world, Mog narrowed his eyes at the couple and stuck his tongue out at the man. Patiently, he waited for them to begin another lap around the stalls, awaiting the moment when they would pass before his hiding place.

It was almost too easy. Moving silently, his movements practiced and swift Mog reached out from his hiding place, raising his body just slightly and his hand easily found its way into the woman's pockets. Careful not to knock the contents against her so as to alert her to his activites, Mog gently retracted the contents of the pockets out of them, clutched in his hand. She didn't notice a thing.

As Mog picked through the good he had stolen from the imperial couple, Brynjolf's heavily accented voice came from behind the stalls to chastise him. "You know, you really ought to be more careful than picking like that in broad daylight." Brynjolf was a prominent member of the Thieves' guild and one of Mog's unofficial guardians.

"Fancy fancy," Mog mused aloud, completely ignoring the well-built redheaded guild member in favour of examining a pretty necklace he had acquired from the woman's pockets. It was carved from a well-polished brass with a little emerald set into the pendant. It seemed she hadn't trusted Riften enough to wear it around her neck, but was still foolish enough to hide it in her pocket. Did idiots not understand the meaning of the term "pick-pocket"?

Mog slung the pendant around his neck and tucked it under the dingy beggar robes he wore, then stood up and stretched, yawning gracelessly. "Morning sunshine," a familiar voice teased from behind him; he turned to see a Redguard girl to leaning against the low-running wall that encircled the market place, a lopsided smirk on her face. She was short and well-built without being plump, with thick dark hair that fell in dead-straight tangles down the sides of her boyish face, stopping short around her squared jaw.

"Sharli," Mog greeted her with a grin, to which she responded by widening her own.

"You two pups had best clear out of here, I'm sure there's plenty of trouble that needs causing elsewhere." Byrnjolf sighed exhaustedly, having been in a bad mood all morning. It seemed that the rumoured collapse of his guild was getting to him.

"Actually, I came to tell you that Gah-Ju wants you, Moggy," Sharli informed him dryly. Her voice was deep for a girl's but it was strong and rich, sounding far too mature for her fifteen years of age.

"Stupid lizard had better not be off his face again, last time was just embarrassing," Mog muttered to himself. He waggled his fingers at Brynjolf before casually vaulting himself over the stone wall, coming to stand next to Sharli.

"Respect your elders, young man!" Brynjolf yelled after them. The two youngsters shared a pair of mischievous grins and then bolted off, as light and agile as elk.

"Beware and repent children of Skyrim, for dark times lie ahead!" Cried the doomsayer, an elderly robed man who had wandered into town a few weeks past and had been declaring the same tales of doom to the population of Riften ever since. "The end of the world is upon us, for the dead are to rise as the moon turns to blood."

Cackling, Sharli purposefully bumped into the doomsayer, an olden man who was slight in stature, not built to withstand knocks. As he stumbled, the Redguard snorted an empty apology and then carried on, scurrying down the steps down to the constructed pathways of wooden planks that ran along Riften's waterway.

Slowing as he reached the steps, Mog took them one at a time and squinted up at the sky, coming to a halt mid-way down. Whilst he held no regard for the doomsayer, or for any prophecy at all, he could not shake the feeling that something really was coming. The sky was blackened on the horizon, as it had been for the past many days. It was often cold here in Riften, raining more often than not, yet they hadn't had a single shower in weeks. Rain was better for working in as a thief, people always squinted when it was raining, their vision obscured. On the horizon, the dark clouds were beginning to blow over in the city's direction and soon the earth would finally taste rain again.

Shivering as an odd cold washed over him, Mog shook himself out of his mental stupor and hurried down the steps, chasing after Sharli. He attempted to put the smile back on his face, which came more easily when he spotted her leaning casually against the wall beside the door to the Ratway with a look of theatrical impatience. "You sure you haven't gone Skooma on me Moggy? You look rather distant today." She spoke with sincerity, but a teasing smirk kept cracking through her frown. Mog punched her playfully on the arm.

"Shut it Shar," he quipped back. She dodged under his punch and pounced on him, tackling him to the floor.

Sharli was much stronger than him—a fact that she and every other member of the thieves' guild mocked him for—and quickly got him into a headlock. "Looks like you're dead," she declared as she mimed throttling him, whilst he made the appropriate chocking noises. Sniggering at her own antics, Sharli ruffled his hair before releasing him and straightening. "Come on, Gah-Ju will kill me if I don't get you to him soon; he was all over the place this morning." She walked around behind him, prodding him into moving forward with sharp jabs from her fingers. "Don't be a baby," she scolded him when he complained, so he slipped on into the Ratways in a sulk.

Whilst Sharli was stronger than him, Mog was faster than her, so he grinned when they inevitably broke into a race to reach The Ragged Flagon first. He quickly pulled away from her, ignoring the insults she called after him as he ran barefoot over the dank stone, a familiar and comforting sensation. Here, down in the Ratway with the rank smell of decay and sweat, the dim lighting and the unavoidable damp, here was his home, and it had been that for as long as he could remember.

Mog looked like just another Nord beggar boy in the streets, and was perfectly happy with that fact for it was fitting. He was short, tiny for his fourteen years of age; guards often passed him off as an ignorant child playing tricks, which was a valuable advantage as a criminal. The leniency might mean the difference between a year in a cell and a simple scolding. Despite his height, he somehow seemed gangly, skinny and scrawny as they came. He had sallow skin and brown features: ratty hair, large almond eyes, and freckles that were scattered across his face. He wasn't at all notable in his appearance, but then he had no reason to be. He was just another rat in the sewers. For that, all he needed to be was fast.

Hurtling into The Ragged Flagon, he received several nods from the rag-tag team of thieves, fences and crooks gathered there. When he came to catch his breath, leaning against the counter, Vekel the bartender addressed him. "Gah-Ju's looking for you," he informed him, sounding rather sullen, as Vekel always did.

"Where is he?" Mog panted, flushed and sweating as he squinted at the people gathered at the tables of the bar. He was unable to spot the Argonian in question, which was odd since normally in the mornings he chose to reside where there was alcohol available to quell the hangover from the previous evening.

"In his room."

Gah-Ju's room was down in the Warrens, despite his status as a member of the Thieves' Guild. Originally this had been because he had been Mog's guardian when he was an infant, and the noise of his crying had had led the other guildmates to exile them to the Warrens so they could get a decent night's sleep. Even after Mog had aged beyond crying in the middle of the night, the pair had stayed in the room, appreciating the privacy it offered. Eventually, despite the abysmal conditions, it became their home.

Sharli caught up soon after, and the pair wandered their way through the vaults, hopping over the tripwire that triggered the maces and scurrying on into the Warrens. They pointedly ignored Knjakr the mad chef, who as always offered them the opportunity for him to devour their flesh—how kind—and walked to the next door over, entering without bothering to knock.

What was usually a neat, orderly room was now in a state of chaos, things thrown everywhere, clothes out, draws hanging open with their contents scattered around the room. Gah-Ju himself was no better as he rushed about the room in a frenzy, tearing through belongings and throwing the odd bits and pieces onto the room's two beds. He failed to notice the two teenagers standing in the open doorway, watching him as though he had gone mad. "Father?" Mog inquired awkwardly after a few moments.

The Argonian paused in the middle of searching one of the little drawers in a writing desk and glanced up at them with wide, feverish eyes. After a moment of staring, seemed to relax somewhat, although he was still clearly agitated. "Mog, good, you're here," he mumbled, nodding to himself as he returned to leafing through the contents of the drawer, a little less feverishly this time, but still with a noticeable haste.

"You wanted to see me?" Mog reminded him slowly, a little worried that his guardian had gone completely insane.

"Yes, yes, sorry," Gah-Ju bumbled, worrying Mog for he was normally a straightforward, composed individual. Finally leaving the draw alone, he straightened and faced the pair, his eyes slipping over to Sharli briefly as he considered her. "Thank you for retrieving him Sharli, if I could have a moment alone with him?"

"Sure," Sharli replied slowly, bobbing her head as she shot Mog a doubtful look. After lingering for another moment more to survey the state of the room, she left, the sound of her footsteps splashing in puddles echoing throughout the Warrens. Gah-Ju did not speak until they had grown distant.

It was obvious that Gah-Ju, an Argonian, could not have fathered Mog, a Nord. Mog did not suffer the usual racism that accompanied his race however, and couldn't think of a better person as a father. Tall for an Argonian, Gah-Ju had the look of an intellectual, something subtly mature and well-read about the way he held himself and the way he spoke. His appearance suited the lifestyle of a thief well, his dark green scaled skin almost black, and his amber eyes the only thing that could be easily made out in the dim lightening of the unlit room, along with the dim ivory colour of the two small horns that protruded either side of the back of his head. Usually he dressed in the standard armour of the Guild, yet today he stood before Mog wrapped up in layers of black robes and dark-tanned leather concealed beneath a black pull-over, his trousers tucked down into heavy-duty walking boots.

Curious about the change in attire although he didn't want to comment when Gah-Ju seemed so stressed, Mog shut the door behind him. By the time he'd turned around Gah-Ju had moved forward to be stood directly before him. Taking Mog's shoulders in his hands, the Argonian scrutinised his face for a moment before speaking, "Mog, we need to leave," he told him simply. His words where blunt and plain, but there was something in them, something caught between pain and determination, that told Mog he had to listen.

"Leave? As in, leave Riften? Is this because of the guild's bad luck?" Mog kept asking more questions because Gah-Ju never once nodded, his expression remaining static and solemn.

Exhaling quietly, Gah-Ju squeezed his shoulders tighter and then shook his head. "We need to leave everything, Mog. The guild, Riften, everyone. We need to disappear."

"Why?" was all he could ask.

"Without wanting to sound melodramatic, Mog, because we aren't safe here. People know us, they know you, some people even know where you came from and right now, and that's dangerous," Gah-Ju answered in a strained voice. Recently Mog had felt he'd been worse than usual, more stressed, more reserved, but it seemed now things had reached tipping point.

Bowing his head, Mog chose his words carefully, speaking in a muted tone. "Is this because of my parents?"

"I suppose, in a way," Gah-Ju confirmed a little hesitantly, averting his eyes from Mog as he spoke. "I'm sorry," he apologised, suddenly pulling Mog in close for a hug. Argonians being overtly affectionate was weird enough, but Gah-Ju? It was as though he really had gone insane.

"We have to, don't we?" Mog checked, staring numbly at the back wall as Gah-Ju held onto him. Inside, he felt oddly accepting of this fate. Perhaps it was the feeling of an oncoming change that had dwelt within him for some time now, or simply because the sense of not belonging was a natural part of him, an orphan, but having to leave did not surprise or pain him.

"Yes." Pulling back, Gah-Ju composed himself a little better and tipped Mog's face up to examine it before patting the side of his jaw and leaving him to return to what Mog now presumed was packing.

"I'll go say my goodbyes then," Mog murmured dully, running over who he would have to see and how everyone would react. As his second father almost, Brynjolf might get emotional; no, he'd almost definitely give him a hearty speech of great value to send him on his way, remaining strong for the "young pup". If anything, he'd only be emotional around Gah-Ju, when the Argonian bid him farewell; they'd been close since the beginning, ever since Brynjolf had helped get them both a place in the guild.

Sharli would be the most difficult to say goodbye to; she was his best friend, sister and soulmate all at once, and to have to leave that behind could never be easy. Still, Mog had always felt that were they to be parted, either by a mission or even by death, they would meet again, tied together by some unbreakable, invisible force. She'd understand.

"No," Gah-Ju snapped suddenly, his voice raised as he whirled around to face Mog. "No goodbyes."

"But—" Mog immediately began to protest, but Gah-Ju was hearing none of it.

"We cannot let anyone know we are leaving, nor can we let anyone see. The risk is too great." Spotting Mog's look of frustration, his posture softened slightly and his tone became gentle. "It is for their sake just as much as it is for ours. If the danger is real, ignorance may be the only thing that will save their skins."

Mog bit back his protests, knowing that Gah-Ju was not to be argued with. He was a patient man, but if he pushed him in a state like this, it would only infuriate him into one of his "states". Gah-Ju when he was angry was a terrifying sight to behold; even Brynjolf was petrified of him then. "Can I go see them one last time though?" Mog pleaded of him in a whiney tone. If there was one thing he could rely on with Gah-Ju, it was that he always babied him if he went about it right.

"Certainly," Gah-Ju relented.

Mog left the room, at first making his way up to the Cistern slowly, watching his bare muddy feet as he took each step, playing the childish game of not stepping on the cracks on the floor. Then he stopped entirely. Soul mates were soul mates; if he left Sharli without a word of goodbye, she would try to find them, just as he would do for her. Straightening out of his slouch, he broke back into a run and disappeared off into the Ratways in pursuit of her.


	3. Chapter 3 - Dahleena - The Worst Bard

_Dahleena_

"I am so late," Dahleena despaired to herself in a whisper as she ran, cursing her complete lack of a single organised fibre in her body, all whilst her mouth kept cracking into a sheepish bemused grin as the fact that this occasion of tardiness was so common it was the new norm tickled her. No doubt Inge Six Fingers would be furious and she would swear that during that very afternoon she'd ensure that Dahleena was banned from the college, as she did every morning Dahleena was late. Never once had the old hag carried out her threats however, so Dahleena's previous terror and panic at being late had dissolved into something that bordered on amused arrogance.

Still, she was humble enough to berate herself mentally and to mutter about how she really ought to know better by now as she hurried up the steps to the college front door, taking them two at a time. A resentful, bitter part of her was also feeling rather snide about the fact that she was supposed to get up at four am just to attend these blasted classes, but she knew better than to ever make that part known to those who were foolish enough to still take her on as their student.

She was the worst bard in the history of bards, or so Inge Six Fingers claimed, and if anyone was old enough to know it was that haggardly ancient cow. As her lute master, Inge had the least patience for her, since Dahleena's talent for the instrument was as non-existent as her time management skills. It wasn't that she didn't try; she really did, with a valiant sort of desperation that quickly turned to frustration, both on her behalf and her teacher's. Whilst as a Khaj'iit she was supposed to have the elegance and physical agility of a graceful hunting cat, when she handled a lute her fingers became clumsy and her ability to focus went out the window.

To her however, being a Bard was her calling. She enjoyed nothing more than singing, just bawling out a tune to the world, a sensation so freeing she would have done it anyway even if she had never set foot in the college. The lifestyle appealed to her too, only having to sing to earn coin, getting to lounge around and drink with customers when they showered you with free rounds as a sign of approval. Smiling a big fat sleepy cat smile to herself, she swanned in like a princess floating on a cloud into the Bards College's foyer and dreamt of a lifestyle of relaxing, drinking and singing.

"I see the worst Bard in the world is late again," commented a dry, female voice from behind her. Cringing slightly at being caught in such a state of foolishness when she was so very late, Dahleena tried to look apologetic as she turned to address whoever had spoken to her. She immediately dropped her guilty expression in favour of a grin however when she spotted who it was.

"Bell!" She greeted the woman with a warm smile, her tail flicking in delight as she bound over to stand before her, her awkwardness vanishing immediately.

Leant in the doorway was Abelle Sette, a Breton cook who worked in the college who was but a few years Dahleena's senior and with whom she shared a room at The Winking Skeever. Whilst she had a very dry cynicism in her tone and outlook on life, Abelle possessed a soft, kind face, her blonde hair course and pale, woven into one thick plait that rested just below her neck on her back, her eyes small, watery and blue. She was not pretty, but she had a certain quality to her appearance that made you automatically feel attached to her somehow, and Dahleena knew from experience that she was indeed someone who was easy to get on with, good-humoured and intelligent, although she was neither aggressive nor conceited about it.

"I woke you over an hour ago Leena," Abelle Sette reminded her tersely, clearly scolding her with her narrowed eyes and the set line of her mouth, "how can you be here so late? I arrived over thirty minutes ago."

"I got distracted," Dahleena confessed sheepishly, avoiding Abelle's gaze as it cut into her, "I went down for food and this man brought me a drink and we started talking about-" She did not get to finish as she was cut off with a sigh and a glare.

"_Again _Leena?"

Bristling defensively, Dahleena just pulled a face at her best friend and then started backing away from her. "I've got classes so…"

"Yeah, I know, enjoy Inge's morning rant; I swear, one of these days you're going to give her a heart attack."

"If the Gods be good!"

Turning, Dahleena broke into a sprint, really just to hastily get away from Abelle's critical gaze of disapproval, so she hurried along to the downstairs library, pausing outside the door as she took a deep breath and then rapped her knuckles against the wood of the door. Pushing it open, none of the other four students gathered there that day even bothered to turn around to look at her this time, far too used to this to find it a novelty. Inge still seemed to get a good kick out shouting at her for it all though.

"Dahleena, I see you decided to join us finally," Inge -an elderly crone of a woman who dressed plainly in pale farmers clothes, who constantly looked aggressive- cooed with a nasty bite in her tone as her shrewd eyes scrutinised her worst student, "come, sit with us, if you would be so kind as to honour us with your presence. If we have woken you up too early, perhaps you would care to choose a nice desk and have a little nap, hmm?" Dahleena winced at that one- yesterday she'd accidentally fallen asleep at her desk, having spent the previous night dancing and singing on table tops after having a few two many rounds of ale.

Knowing better than to apologise by now, Dahleena simply bowed her head in solemn respect and hurried forward to take a seat, keeping her distance from the other students who all regarded her with at least a degree of contempt, some more than others. For a moment she let herself believe she had escaped unscathed, slumping her head against her hand so that she might daydream, but when she raised her eyes from her lap she saw that Inge had stalked around to stand before her desk, her hands on her hips, her body taut. She had assumed the battle position, and thus the shouting triad began.

Dahleena struggled through the day as she always did, fighting the current but not quite drowning. The college at least recognised that she had a good voice, but she'd no ear for trained music and thus either always sang in a different key, or to a different tune entirely as to that which they wanted her to sing in. The only class she truly enjoyed was her two pm history class with Giraud Gemane, who to her seemed an excellent teacher for he brought a musical lightness –pardon the pun- to the studying of that which had passed and he made it enjoyable, giving his teachings an easy energy that successfully swept Dahleena up. He was also the only teacher in the college who didn't refer to her as "the worst bard in history".

Eventually, after a long day of once again being reminded that she was so very ill suited to her dream occupation, six pm came around and she was released back into the world of possibility, opportunity and unexplored wonders. Bounding out ahead of everyone else, she left the stress of being the worst bard ever behind and half skipped her way back to The Winking Skeever, where Abelle Sette would already have returned, her shift over earlier than Dahleena's classes.

In the hall of the Inn, Dahleena was well known and well liked. Despite being a Khaj'iit, she did not suffer the usual racism of men and mer folk, for she was an Ohmes in her "breed" -as the men of Skyrim had coined the term- for she had been born under a new moon and thus it was so. Her sub-species were often said to be easily mistaken for the Bosmer, but she loved and cherished her differences. Her less beast-like appearance did however mean that men and mer folk treated her with less caution, something that her reputation helped lubricate greatly.

Uraak, a Nord traveller who had seen many places and could tell great tales of the most exotic lands, people and cultures imaginable who had been residing in the Inn for over a month now called out to her when she entered. She knew she really ought to be going up to change into something more presentable for her job, relations with her customers should really be more highly valued, or so she thought. It was by some miracle that the tavern owners at her own home had given her the job of the Bard without her being fully qualified or capable on the Lute. She had proven popular though, thus she had stayed on.

Uraak was a huge man, with arms bound in bulging muscles, brown plaited hair and a bearded jaw that was well kept. He smiled a lot and loved nothing more than talking, except maybe drinking. He was Dahleena's favourite client at the Inn, thus she practically ran over to him and dove onto the seat on the bench beside him, her tail twitching in approval when he cheered and threw a massive arm around her, hugging her close into him. "Dahleena my girl, we were just talking of you and your people," He told her through bleary eyes and a dreamy grin.

Souring slightly, Dahleena drew back and looked at him. "My people? I was not under the impression that you had visited Elsweyr," she pointed out, naturally cautious around the subject of her race, for whilst she might be an Ohmes, she still knew all too much of the cruelty of others who viewed different as inferior, or worse, dangerous. Of course, her reservations had been unnecessary, for whilst he was as huge as a boulder and could easily crush a normal man as if he were nothing more than a twig, Uraak had the heart of a gentle child and he saw nothing but wonder and hope in the world. Racism did not make sense to him, he was both too naïve and too smart for it.

"No sweet Dahleena, I have not, but this fine gentleman here has hailed from the place and as such he has been telling us that which you had yet to reveal," Uraak explained, gesturing to a man Dahleena had not yet noticed who sat diagonally across from the pair of them.

Like her, he was a Khaj'iit, but unlike most Khaj'iit he did not wear a Budi. Most strangely in fact he had adorned over him the robes of a mage, fine ones at that, constructed from a silky silver material with delicate white lacing on the sleeves and around the edges of the hood. As Khaj'iit were notorious for being underachievers in the use of magic, to see a Kahj'iit in mage robes was something of a novelty.

Underneath the slight shadow cast by the hood, the face was that of perhaps an Suthay –a sub-species of Khaj'iit who were the same in height and build to common men, but were distinctly feline in their appearance, with snouts and fur encompassing their entire body, the most common race of Khaj'iit out here in Skyrim- with slender amber eyes, a strong facial structure and beautiful honey-brown fur with lighter, ashen stripes worked into it, the occasional markings of darker, earthy browns running through it too. Like all Khaj'iit men that Dahleena had ever known, he had a look about him that said he knew too much and said too little, a dancing, whimsical smile on his face and his eyes eager, drinking her appearance in.

Once again, Uraak gestured to him with his hand, raising it slightly more now as if he were going to clap the Khaj'iit on the back, and then thought better of it. "This here is Soy. I smelt him out as a kindred spirit the moment I laid eyes on him; he's a traveller, like me, and an excellent story-teller, although I'd like to think I have him beat in that." Uraak chuckled to himself whilst Dahleena and this Soy remained with their eyes locked, regarding one another and sizing each other up, as was the way with cats, even ones as dippy as Dahleena.

"Dahleena here is our resident Bard, although she's better known for being able to out-drink any man or mer here," Uraak declared heartily as way of introducing her, and after that Dahleena could no longer meet Soy's eyes, so she instead frowned at the man with the arm around her.

"You play a rather large role in that," she reminded him curtly, although she could not do so without humour. Before her she heard Soy chuckle darkly under his breath, whilst Uraak just laughed good-naturedly.

"Buying drinks for a lady is one of the pleasures I indulge in now that my travels have afforded me the coin to do so; I am lucky to have found one who drinks so well."

Uraak made a few more slightly embarrassing comments about her habits whilst drunk to the stranger, who smiled politely through all of them and made no jibe at her thankfully, before she excused herself so she could go and greet Abelle and change. It did not escape her notice that Soy's eyes followed her very closely everywhere she went, and not in the way a man's eyes followed her when they were interested in buying her drinks; this one did not watch the way she walked, rather where she walked. It was unnerving.

Abelle was up in their room sowing, mending clothes, a great talent of hers, which meant that she often tacked up Dahleena's too. Once, Dahleena had always tried to do her own, but Abelle had been so appalled by the outcome of her efforts that by now she'd given up trying to please the Breton and instead tried to make up for the trouble she went to for her through being amiable and keeping her spirits up. Since Abelle hadn't become bitter and resentful towards her yet, she believed she was doing a fairly good job, even if Abelle did get in moods with her about her drinking and punctuality.

They exchanged the usual pleasantries about work and school whilst Dahleena stripped off her plain and standard college uniform, dumping it on a chair before picking her up more brightly coloured Budi and working that over her chest. "Promise me you'll be up before midnight tonight will you Leena? I get awfully worried about you being drunk with all those men, who clearly are buying those drinks for reasons other than your singing," Abelle begged of her as she slipped into her clothes, buckling up the straps and smoothing the cloth down over her torso.

"You know if they dared pull anything I'd give them a clawing and what for," Dahleena assured her as she plucked her little circlet of nightshade strung together from her bed and arranged it over her head.

"And they have swords and fists; I've seen the Nord you dance with Leena, he's about thrice the size of you!"

"I'll be fine Bell, I promise you I'll be sensible tonight, no bawdy tunes or tabletop dancing for me. I shall become a reformed woman." They both knew it would never happen.

Checking herself in the mirror, Dahleena scrutinised her appearance, for it was what most often won her the free drinks, since she spent much more time drinking than she did singing. She was of spotted fur, her fur light like the colour of dried grass with creamy ringlets worked into it, her body caught somewhere between that of a woman and a cat. She had a proud sort of face with big, heavily framed yellow eyes, distinctive tattoos printed in rich, dark colours across her face and chest and her tail had dark ringlets on its end. She matched the summery green cloth she had adorned well and with a satisfied smile she nodded at her appearance and then bid Abelle goodnight.

Upon exiting the room, she found herself bumping into someone. Startled, she stumbled back and apologised through a laugh, smiling easily until she looked up and it froze. Soy was stood there, looking back at her, that sly smirk still on his face. "Dahleena," he spoke her name as though it were a word of such meaning, emphasising it with his voice, which in turn was thickly accented and rich, warm in tone but also lilted, dangerous, "may I speak with you?"

Seeing no other choice without being incredibly rude to this man whom she had perhaps simply misjudged, Dahleena forced herself to smile and then agreed, following him as he turned into a room two doors down. When she was in, he suddenly took her hands in his –which were more paw like, so he simply encased hers and pressed them together between his- and stood very close to her, looking her in her eyes with an enthusiastic searching quality. "Dahleena, I have important news for you, but you may wish to be sitting for when I deliver it," he informed her, sounding a little breathless, like an excited schoolboy.

"I shall stand, thank you," she declined when he had gestured for her to take a seat on his bed. She could not help distrusting this man, however young and excited he seemed.

Seemingly unaffected by her rejection, the stranger remained just as wide-eyed and energetic as before, although it seemed unfair to compare him to a child. He remained self-contained and reserved, as all Khaj'iit often do, and always there was that secretive smile on his face. "As you are a Bard, and will have sung many songs on the subject, I will not patronise you with the history of the term, but Dahleena, I travelled here to inform you that you are the Dragonborn."

At first Dahleena waited patiently for him to snicker at his own joke, but when he kept up his look of earnest interest she snorted, approving of his ability to stay with the trick. "Hilarious, now is there actually something you wished to discuss with me, or may I return to earning my keep?" She inquired crisply, noting the smell of this cat on inhalation; it was a rather over-powering scent, the dryness of the desert and the moist sickliness of some kind of flower all mixed into one, whilst something breezy and fresh, almost like mint kept it from making her feel entirely faint. This man was truly bizarre; it was just in a strange, subtle way.

Shaking his head, laughing along with her, Soy kept a hold of her hands and squeezed them tighter. "I did not expect your immediate belief, although it would make things much simpler, but no matter. Times shall change, as they have already begun to; no doubt you will have heard tales of Dragons rising from the dead and of a darkness setting into the land. It is only in the time of enemies and tyrants that heroes and revolutionaries can rise up, and so you shall come to know your power as it is called for," Soy told her factually, as if this were unquestionable and taken for granted.

"Soy, I know that Uraak is a great purchaser of alcohol; he is our greatest patron. Allow me to escort you back to that which you have clearly drunk enough of already," Dahleena offered in a drawl, moved to place a hand on Soy's back so as to escort him out, but he slipped her grasp and moved backwards, smiling wider now.

"You are still sleeping Dragonborn. When you have awoken, and wish to learn the secrets of your being and your destiny, come and find me in the Hall of the Dead, where I shall be honoured to become your guide," he instructed, his voice so sincere and gentle that for the briefest of moments Dahleena wanted to believe his words, to get lulled into his madness along with him, and then she bid her mind free of such nonsense and shook her head.

"I'll bare that in mind," she muttered sullenly, ashamed of herself for even considering the madness as she went to the door and opened it. A hand caught her wrist as she made to leave.

"Keep safe Dahleena; dark times are upon us," Soy wished for her, once again sounding as though he meant it with every fraction of his existence. Just like before, it made Dahleena hesitate, drawn in by whatever mysterious intensity clung to this man before she hurried from the room, berating herself for being so foolish as to listen to the man, all the whilst feeling rather ashamed at just how shaken he had managed to make her.


	4. Chapter 4 - Mog - Goodbyes

_Mog_

By the time Mog had learnt of Sharli's whereabouts and tracked her down the sun was high in the sky and the underground was beginning to bake as the heat soaked through the earth, helped by the ample fires burning, intensifying the humidity and the dank stink of sweat. The Redguard had been sent to do labour work in the storage room, thus it was there that Mog found her, padding into the room and glancing around to check they were alone before he snuck up on her.

"Divines be damned Moggy, don't _do_ that, or one day someone will stick you with steel instead of laugh," she warned him gruffly after he had approached her turned back stealthily, unnoticed, and had pounced her shoulders, cackling fiercely, but his voice was wobbly as he did so as he thought of sudden goodbyes.

Shrugging him off a little callously, Sharli went about her work of sorting through the new weaponry the guild had scavenged whilst muttering to herself; manual work always made her crabby. "I'd like to see them try," Mog sniffed haughtily, although it was not without a smile. "Here, I'll help you and we'll get it done in half the time."

Vanryth the blacksmith had wanted them to sort the weapons out into crates by type, and then to compile those that looked rusted, badly crafted or battered to be smelted down and forged into something they could sell for a profit. This kind of thing was only ever done a few times a year, the stores allowed to just build up over time, but this meant that once it needed doing, they had a damn large horde to work through, and the fences and merchants always wanted the pretty things put aside for them to make a neat deal out of. Sharli didn't take well to the need to be organised or having to do the same sorting process on repeat, but Mog was used to it, what with having Gah-Ju as a guardian, so he contently took the reigns in the operation.

They worked in silence, Mog running about and fetching whilst Sharli called the shots with sullen gestures and grunts on what went where and the quiet was not uncomfortable, even though there was so much that Mog wanted to say. "What did the lizard want with you then?" Sharli asked eventually, and Mog wondered if she'd been meditating on the question all along, or if she'd only just remembered. He paused in his work and looked over at her, stood by a crate with the reject tools crashed down within it.

Swallowing, he kept his eyes averted as he tried to work out how to say it. "He was high again wasn't he?" She guessed, incorrectly so, her tone sharp and critical, but when she noted his body language and downcast eyes, it softened. "I can talk to Brynjolf if you'd like, he can talk to him, it worked last time didn't it? For a bit anyway." She was trying to comfort him. Perhaps it was just because they were to part ways in a matter of hours, maybe only minutes, but for once her concern left him feeling deeply touched.

Grinning through what could have been tears, he shook his head, doubling back to go and take that which she had deemed to be sorted into this and that and to transport it. When he drew up before her, he knew she'd see his eyes and expression, and so he faced her bravely, his eyes drying as he smiled at her, a look of comradeship. "We're leaving," he told her quietly, his voice small but the meaning of finality was clear.

Whilst she simply watched him, he took the two items, a curved steel sword that looked to be sky forge steel and a neat little dagger with a black handle, and went to place them both in the merchants' piling area. "Leaving?" Sharli repeated as he left her, turning around to face him as he moved.

"Leaving Riften, you, Brynjolf, everything. Gah-Ju said we had to disappear," Mog elaborated, sounding a little tired and pained with the idea, but he'd accepted it with a resigned sense of inevitability. He'd often felt as though they might have to leave; there was no obvious reason for this that he could name, but he felt there was a subtly in the way that Gah-Ju had always treated everything, the way he kept himself detached and always tried to ensure that Mog was on his toes. It had always felt as though he were getting ready to leave. Now it seemed that time had come.

"Where are you going?" Sharli inquired curiously as Mog crouched down and gently set the curved sword amongst the other similar weapons, down on the floor of the relatively empty crate.

Shaking his head, Mog confessed he had no idea. "You're not coming back, are you?" They both knew the answer to that question, and so Mog did not feel the need to answer verbally. Instead he simply stood and paced over to stand before a barrel, upon which sat a lit lamp and the other few daggers that were pretty enough to be worth fencing.

Turning the dagger over in his hands, the handle cool against his fingers, Mog bit down on his lip as a mix of guilt and loss messed with his head. He couldn't bring himself to turn around and face her yet, for now the silence was definitely uncomfortable. "I'm sorry Shar."

Quiet remained even after he had spoken and it made his back prickle defensively, the way it always did whenever Mog felt someone unwanted watching him. Sniffling slightly, feeling rather pitiful and shame-faced in that moment, he swallowed his pride and fear and turned to face his best friend for their final goodbye.

It took his brain far too long to process what was in front of him, and it had a rather appalling priority list. At first all he noticed was that Sharli looked completely different; she no longer looked like Sharli in the slightest. Gone was her usual grim smile, no trace of humour or cynicism in her expression, only a dead, flat cold that sent an unwelcome shiver through Mog, her mouth a tight line and her eyes darker and watching. Her body had changed too; gone were the usual jaunty angles and the air of arrogance that seemed to cling to all young adults; instead in their place was a whole new presence, one that seemed all at once both powerful and concealed, her back arched over slightly. She closely resembled a Night Cat waiting to pounce.

Next came the noticing of the weapon clutched in her hand; it was certainly not one belonging to the Thieves Guild, nor one that had been stolen. It was beautiful -another fact that Mog really ought to have not dwelt on- and it was mesmerising almost to the point of being hypnotic, forged from some strange black metal, the likes of which Mog had never seen, a blue glimmer to its edge where the light caught it, shifting like the reflection of the sun on water. Its shape was that of a long, thin dagger with a subtle curve to the blade, the handle wrapped in a deep green material. Finally, when it was far too late, Mog noticed that she had launched herself at him.

He didn't resist, not at first, so she brought him straight to the floor, pinning him as she had always done in their games of make believe fighting. It all felt so familiar that Mog took a few moments to realise just what was happening; he only just managed to grasp his bearings in time to skid himself sideways when she tried to bring her blade down through his throat.

Her knees had failed to find good footing on the floor, splayed either side of his legs so he was secured, but the floor was uneven and her left knee was caught in a pothole, so in a moment of panicked instinct he threw her off, flipping her off of him as he scrambled like a frightened mouse in an attempt to flee. He was quick, as he always had been, but she'd seized his ankles before he could clear the area around her and she tugged him back down to the ground just as quickly as he had pulled himself up.

It became a game of fisty-cuffs as Mog flipped himself on over to his back so he was at least facing her, batting back at her strikes at him. By a stroke of great luck his wild scrapping with her hands managed to knock the dagger from her grip, but this only seemed to focus her more as she snarled, her eyes wild and not ones he recognised anymore. They had played this game a hundred times and every time the outcome had been the same. This time Sharli wouldn't need to say, "you're dead" to him, because this time it was all too real.

The realisation of death was somewhat cut short however when her strength over powered his attempt to hold her back and she pressed through to connect her hands to his neck, her fingers ensnaring him and she quickly cut off his blood flow. Gagging, the beginning light-headedness setting in, Mog was sobbing now, the shock of his best friend trying to murder him too much with the accompanying knowledge that he was going to die. Trapped like a rat, he flailed wildly, trying to grab at her in an attempt to push her off somehow.

All of a sudden, the hands on his neck went slack and the body that had been pinning him suddenly toppled forward so that Sharli's head fell with a loud crack onto the floor space beside Mog's, her hair going into his eyes slightly. Sucking in breath as his body shook, Mog gaped up at the ceiling in total shock, dizzy and disorientated, but becoming gradually more aware of the hot damp sensation that was soaking underneath and through him.

No one else was in the room with him, save the corpse collapsed across him. He panted, motionless as silent tears streaked down his cheeks for a moment before remembering himself, yelping a little as he scuttled out from under the body, backing up against the closest wall, crouching as he looked over at the body, limp and at an awkward angle from where he had disturbed it.

Bringing his hands to his face to wipe the tears there, Mog discovered he was still holding the small dagger with the black handle from earlier in a rigid, vice like grip, his knuckles ghostly pale. More disturbing was the coat of blood that was slowly dripping down onto the floor from its blade, along with the understanding of what exactly had happened. Mog glanced back at the body.

"Shar," he whispered in a ghost of his usual voice. "Shar." Rocking back, he slumped against the wall, pushing his legs out before him as he simply collapsed, staring at the body. "Shar." He continued repeating the name over and over again until it became a sort of mantra, his voice sounding desolately lost as he quaked slightly, but no more tears came.

She was now lying in a pool of her own blood, that which now also stained Mog's shoulder and was soaked into his hair. To Mog she'd always seemed big, since he was so small, but as her body now lay there crumpled she seemed tiny even to him, only a child, totally unmoving as her face remained down, obscured by her hair. He didn't know what he was supposed to make of this; they had known one another from childhood and had grown up together, playing the same games, causing the same trouble and fighting one another's battles. They were children, but as street children they had been brothers in arms. And now she had tried to murder him without so much as a word of explanation. Yet he had been the one to kill her.

A shout from down out in the main cavern of the Thieves Guild Headquarters awoke him from his daze, and after looking over the body one last time, Mog turned heel and fled, not really seeing anyone else as he ran, despite the fact that the surrounding people had been his family his whole life and he was to leave them now. No goodbyes. That was the rule.

"You alright there lad?" Brynjolf asked of him as he tore past him in the Ragged Flagon, but he did not turn back to look at him or answer. He didn't think he could stand it if Brynjolf tried to kill him too.

Just like he had but an hour ago with Sharli, he wound his way through the Vaults and the Warrens until he came to Gah-Ju's room, this time arriving to discover it had been cleared and Gah-Ju was ready and waiting for him, a bag slung over one of his shoulders and it was clear from its size that they were travelling light.

Mog did not say a word of what had passed to Gah-Ju, and if his pain showed in his expression, the Argonian did not comment on it. He remained in perfect silence, not finding any want to comment on the fact that they were navigating their way out of Riften through a part of the sewer system that even he had never explored, nor could he find the effort to reply to the little amount of small-talk that Gah-Ju made with anything other than incoherent grunts and mumbles. There was a hollowness within him now as not only had he lost Sharli that day, but that sense of always being connected to her had shattered too. In her last moments, he hadn't even known who she was.

They came out of a tunnel a little way beyond the walls of the city and tied to a nearby tree was a black stallion, large and with impressive, prominent muscles bound in its legs. Gah-Ju tried to get him to talk now, clearly worried he was depressed by their departure and the loss of contact with everyone, but he could not talk. His silence was his mourning and he had to hold onto it for at least a few moments more.

It was only when he was mounted up on the horse, kept safe and sheltered between Gah-Ju's arms and they had swiftly begun riding out into the unknown that he allowed himself to break down and cry, his body rattled with choppy, uncontrollable sobs. Behind him, Gah-Ju did not comment, instead he simply tightened his arms around his shoulders and allowed him to collapse back into him.

As promised, they disappeared.


	5. Chapter 5 - Nalimir - Targets

_Nalimir_

Whilst it was a Bosmer tradition to eat the flesh of a defeated foe as part of their religion and the Green Pact, Nalimir felt much better with quickly doing away with the body. Thus, he had no qualms about disposing of it via the free and easy access to the ocean. After all, Riften was a densely populated city; throwing an Imperial body with a cut throat on the ol' spit would not go unnoticed. Riften's connection to the ocean provided the perfect means of body disposal, and by the time anyone discovered the bagged body, Nalimir would be long gone. He doubted anyone would recognise the nameless doomsayer anyway; those types were almost always alone, caught up in their own fantasy world of impending doom and destruction.

Despite the nature of his work, Nalimir disliked Riften; the air of constant fear that clung to everyone put them on their guard and made his job more difficult. Still, he'd had a target here. The Doomsayer was eager enough to follow anyone who was willing to listen to him, so the job had been simple. He'd done it quietly in a secluded spot; no one had heard or seen a thing.

He had a room for the night booked at The Bee and Barb. Normally he didn't linger around the location of a job, but in this case, he still had business in Riften. Besides, he doubted anyone would ask questions about the disappearance of the Doomsayer. Even so, he didn't plan to spend any more time here than necessary.

The Ratways were as unpleasant as he remembered them. For a short time he'd worked here as a sell-sword, where work was easy to come by, albeit unpleasant. Moisture clung to everything here, making him feel clammy and uncomfortable in his own skin as a light sheet of vapour coated him. Skeevers darted this way and that, occasionally crawling from the shadows to bite curiously in his direction. They scurried off when he looked their way, squeaking hysterically. Disgusting creatures.

If Nalimir had been more of a people person, he might have adored The Ragged Flagon. The patrons there were all "his kind of people", criminals and murders. As much as they had in common however, he had no idea how to talk to them. He approached the bar, whose tender stood behind it cleaning out a glass and eyeing him suspiciously. With his knack for names and faces, Nalimir remembered him as Vekel the Man, despite the amount of time that had passed since his last visit.

Swallowing and drumming his fingers on the wood of the counter, Nalimir glanced shiftily around him before facing the man before him. "I'm looking for someone called Mog," he informed him somewhat awkwardly, more accustomed to hunting people out by his own devices than through polite inquiries. It was apparently the wrong thing to say, for the man bristled, his nostrils flaring as he inhaled sharply.

"Get out of here, now," Vekel hissed.

"I have no intention of harming him," Nalimir assured him, voice and expression perfectly calm despite his rush of panic. Showing your emotions around here was far too dangerous.

The barkeep lunched forward and grabbed him by the front of his robe, yanking him forward and dragging him up over the front of the bar counter. If he'd been any shorter he would have been lifted clean off of his feet. "It's because of you that he's gone, isn't it?" Vekel shouted, turning most heads to look for the source of commotion. One by one they understood what was happening and grew quiet.

"I don't know what you're—"

"Don't try me assassin, you've killed one of our own and sent another two running; I gladly cut your throat as you did hers."

Though Nalimir didn't know the details, it was becoming very clear that he would not be able to find Mog here. Before he could make his excuses and try to escape, another recognisable face stepped forward and laid a hand on Vekel's shoulder. "Vekel, you know we have an alliance with the brotherhood; they would not harm one of our own," Brynjolf reminded the bartender gently, keeping his eyes off of Nalimir as he spoke.

After a few long moments, Vekel released Nalimir, though he remained tight-lipped, muttering under his breath, skewering Nalimir with a sour look that was a clear indication for him to leave. Twisting his nose in distaste at the treatment he'd received, Nalimir took a step back to start his escape of this hell hole, but his saviour no longer seemed quite so gallant. Brynjolf turned towards him with his hands on his hips, one rested on the hilt of his sword, a brief gesture of his hand motioning for Nalimir to stay put. Around them, the patrons of the bar moved with him, some standing whilst others simply stroked their weapons patiently.

"What does the brotherhood want with the lad?" Brynjolf demanded. The others gathered were beginning to exchange hushed comments and Nalimir knew to tread lightly.

"I did not come on behalf of the brotherhood," he informed the thief truthfully, glancing around behind him to check his exits and to tally the number of people that were gathered. Six, excluding Vekel, Brynjolf and himself. He might be an assassin but he was no god; he could not afford to press whatever nerve he'd previously touched.

"Then why?" Brynjolf seemed invigorated by it rather than surprised, as if it gave him greater reason to press the issue.

"I came to offer the boy protection." Clearly Mog, whoever and whatever he was, had managed to get himself mixed up in some kind of danger. Perhaps it was the kind the Greybeards had spoken of, or something worse.

"Why would he need protection?" Brynjolf asked.

"From someone like you?" Vekel elaborated, eyeing Nalimir up and down with a certain degree of distaste. The alliance between the two guilds had always been delicate, to say the least, and whatever had transpired here had done nothing to ease those tensions.

Nalimir felt that outing the boy as the Dragonborn would not be in his best interests, for it would only add complications and questions. "I've come on instructions from a neutral third party. As for why, I think your greeting explains that quite well."

Brynjolf relaxed slightly, apparently satisfied, though Vekel still seemed paranoid as ever. "A neutral third party?" Brynjolf inquired lightly, smiling lightly in response to Nalimir's careful silence. "Need to know?" Nalimir nodded.

"You can't really trust—" Vekel was quick to protest, but Brynjolf was faster to cut him off,

"Vekel, will you get our friend here a drink? He'll need it to see our little exhibition," Brynjolf instructed, [his tone just slightly clipped]. Seething under his breath, Vekel poured a foul-smelling brown liquid into a glass. Nalimir didn't reject the glass he was handed, but didn't drink from it, either.

Gesturing for him to follow, Brynjolf led him down through into the Thieves' Guild Headquarters. This should probably have been considered an honour by an outsider, but there was a distinct lack of theatrics. The members of the Guild present here all seemed to be on their guard, watching their backs and giving him suspicious glances. Brynjolf perpetually looked back over his shoulder at him, smiling pleasantly, though he was no doubt checking up on him. Nalimir did his best to appear as non-threatening as possible, which was difficult, given that he'd been identified as a member of the Brotherhood.

"The lad you seek has vanished along with his guardian; a few of their things have been packed, but we don't know whether or not they chose to leave. No one saw them leave, and there were no goodbyes," Brynjolf explained as they crossed over the crossroad bridge that ran over the little circular pond, central to the room, the pair heading over in the direction of one of the tunnels that led off from the main room.

"Was he a member here?" Nalimir questioned, unable to stop his eyes wandering about the room curiously despite the hateful glares he received back for it.

"They both were."

"And his guardian was…?"

"An Argonian named Gah-Ju. They both came to us over twelve years ago when the child was a babe, although Gah-Ju had been one of us in previous years."

It was unlike Brynjolf to be so free with the information, so Nalimir could only wonder about what tragedy was causing him to be so desperate for answers. They trudged through to a smaller room that was lined with crates. Weaponry was spread across it, haphazardly sorted into categories. More notably, there was the body of a Redguard girl lying face down in the centre of the room, bloodstains pooling around the upper half of her body.

"We found her two days ago in the afternoon, just like this, the blood still damp and her skin still warm. Mog had been seen in with her not thirty minutes before he ran away…" Brynjolf trailed off, caught in some strand of his own thoughts. After a moment he shook himself out of it, frowning slightly. "They were inseparable before, like two sides of the same coin. He would never…" Brynjolf swallowed, shaking his head grimly. "We have yet to work out what happened or why."

Nodding slowly, Nalimir took three careful steps into the room and then circled the body, examining it from different angles. He was no [crime scene investigator], but he was familiar with death. "You haven't disturbed the body in any way?" He inquired absently as he squinted at the wound through the ragged hair that lay across the girl's neck. He was hesitant to touch the body out of disrespect and for fear of ruining his only clue.

"Ah, about that. We've tried to move her, somewhere besides this hell hole, but," Brynjolf pulled a face, grimacing and tilting his head to the side as he winced, being rather uninformative for a moment, but he then continued to explain, "It has proved impossible so far."

"How so?"

"Well, try touching her." Brynjolf nodded in the direction of the body.

With some caution, Nalimir extended his hand and gingerly tried to brush back the girl's hair to examine the wound on her neck. A tremendous force blew him backwards, and then he was staring at the ceiling, nausea and whiplash shooting through his body. "Rather impressive isn't it?" Brynjolf drawled. Nalimir clutched his forehead and grunted as he sat up, staring again at the body.

Several markings were now floating several centimetres above the girl's body. They were clearly magic in nature, glowing with a bright green light. They crossed her entire body in a series of circles all with their own unique pattern curled up within them.

There were eight in total, evenly distributes over the girl's surface. Nalimir could be wrong, but he thought he recognised the markings of the divines within them, wrapped amongst odd symbols and shapes that were completely foreign to him. He did not however get a chance to examine them in depth however for they glimmered there for only a moment before they faded, leaving no trace of their presence behind. "What was that?"

"We wish we knew," Brynjolf confessed. "Actually, I was rather hoping you would."

Standing, dusting himself off, Nalimir gazed at the body for a moment longer before shaking his head. "I have just as little idea as you do, I'm afraid," he admitted slowly. He exhaled heavily through pursed lips as he came to a conclusion. "Unfortunately however, I know someone who does."


	6. Chapter 6 - Soldin - Glory

_Soldin_

"We were stood there, in the chaos of an ending battle, closing in on the remaining Bandits when all of a sudden this fire mage came out of nowhere, roaring her head off like a madwoman, flames dancing around her at her command. Those we had yet to kill scattered to make way for her; you could tell by the rags she wore that she was one of them- you know, those tanned leather pieces with bone and skeletal necklaces that all bandits seem to wear? Well anyway, it was obvious that this woman was some kind of leader to these bandits for they immediately followed her every command, renewed hope in their eyes."

"With a new wave of strength they came at us, fire theirs to tame. Yet we held fast. There's no magic or blade in the land that can hold back this sword." To demonstrate, Soldin half drew his iron great sword from its sheath and let it glimmer in the light for a moment, resting it on his lap for all to admire. "We charged in there and by Talos we showed them what Champions are made of. Blood stained the ground that day, just blood of criminals and cretins. Even the fire witch bled like a man when you stuck her full of holes."

Leaning forward, resting his arms on his thighs, Soldin shifted in his seat to get comfortable and then grinned at his audience. They were gathered around him in a tight circle, some taller youths stood at the back craning their necks to look over and listen to him. "I tell you, I never saw anything as ferocious as that fire mage; she was no average, untrained mer I can tell you. Wizened, she looked like a Drugar almost, save there was no rot on her flesh and her eyes were wide and manic. The flames burned without fuel, without rules and as unpredictable as summer rains; I'd seen her burn three of my fellow Champions to nothing but a pile of ash or seared flesh, but I gripped my sword and I ran."

"When she saw me, she shrieked like a banshee, making a noise that was something awful. It drew the attention of the surrounding bandits, who all then rushed to defend their elder, but I kept going. Cutting one of the bandits down was the easy part, but next I had to roll to the side to dodge past a wall of fire, easily as high as the tallest Orc. I thought for sure that day would be the day I finally entered Sovngarde, yet when I brought my great sword down through the air and cut that witch in two, the whole of the field seemed to fall silent."

"Moments later the rest of the Bandits were scattered and running; it didn't take us long to round them up and reunite them with their fallen brethren." Around him, Soldin's audience seemed impressed, the younger members exchanging excited grins with one another whilst the elders were more considerate, the odd sceptic among them frowning. "Following that day we drank and sang till light had come and gone again, but nothing, no whore or rich wine compared to that battle."

A particularly eager young boy in his early years of adulthood was stood before Soldin. He was watching him with a look of sheer delight, entirely captured by the story, his eyes unblinking. Smiling softly at him especially, Soldin leant closer to him and met his eyes. "The conquest brought peace to all those who had been plagued by the bandit raids and brought revenge to many aggrieved families, but by Talos the battle; never has such justice been served in such heated glory! I expect they still sing songs of it, even now."

"I want to be a Champion," the boy before him announced suddenly, his face glowing with sweat and heat, his cheeks flushed and his eyes wide. "I want to bring Skyrim and the Nords glory, and I want to fight glorious battles and have songs sung about me." Soldin broke into boisterous laughter and he clapped the lad on the back, sending him stumbling for he was scrawny and without the muscle to resist.

"I'm sure you will lad, for I give you my blessing."

The evening had so far been perfect; a fine bard with golden hair had sung a song just for him when he'd told her a story of his battles and now here he was, sat in Candlehearth Hall, nestled into the centre of snowy Windhelm. Gathered around him were adoring listeners, youths drinking in his every word and adults contemplating his tales and wishing they were him. It was his kind of evening.

"You there," a deep, authoritative female voice called out from outside the ring of admiring fans, "I know you." Striding forth, cutting through those who had clustered around him came a woman. She was red of hair, with earthy paint smeared over her face as a form of camouflage and her attire consisted of thick boiled leather pieces that on her lower half were separate, threaded together so her legs were completely free to move. She stood with a slight crouch in her back and her face was hard-pressed but her eyes wild, moving quickly whilst still managing to see and judge all.

Coming to stand at Soldin's side, she rested her hand on the hilt of her dagger and looked him up and down with a critical eye. "And I know you," Soldin replied a little gruffly, recognising her and not liking it, "Aela the Huntress, if I am not mistaken."

"You are not," she confirmed tersely, now raising her eyes to meet his as she frowned. "I am of the Champions and know that you have no right to stake a claim as one of their members."

Souring greatly as this woman intruded on his time of revelling in his own achievements, Soldin glowered sullenly at her. "I spoke true; I fought as one of the Champions in the battle against the Bandits down beyond Whiterun and it was a battle of great glory and a victory to us." He tried to use the term "us" to soften her and get her to see him as one of her own but she was having none of it.

"Do not patronise me drunkard," she snapped at him, the hand on the dagger tightening as she regarded him with a look of great distaste. Closing back in around them to watch, Soldin's previously adoring audience were now scrutinising him, gossiping amongst themselves. As always, it seemed people were just as eager to pick him apart as they were to rejoice with him. Sycophantic brown-nosers; he ought to teach them all a lesson they'd never forget.

Twisting her nose at him, Aela stepped around so that she was stood directly before him. "I know you, Soldin of Whiterun. I know of your shame, of how you were banished from the Champions and that now the very idea of you claiming glory as one of us is a sick joke. You are to revoke all claim to our principles and legacy, or I will cut your lying tongue from your throat." With that she drew the dagger and the crowd whispered in excitement for it was clear that she was not bluffing.

Jumping up from his seat, Soldin knocked her back a few feet and glared at her in outrage. "I fought your battles, I would have gladly given my life for everything your order stood for, and over one misunderstanding you cast me out! There was no justice in it and I will not allow it to strip me of my truths," He bellowed back at her, the alcohol and anger mixing together as one to form a fury unguided by logic or restraint.

Straightening, her face now twisted by a feral snarl, Aela pointed the dagger in his direction. "You are a disgrace to the Champions and the reason why people misjudge us as barbarians; you think of nothing but yourself and your own glory. We champions are about something of higher importance." She straightened her back and looked haughty.

"Princess, you are a band of dogs scrapping over meat; I brought glory to you all," Soldin sneered back at her.

The nickname "princess" appeared to have tipped the scales however as an unbridled growl ripped out of the woman's throat and she jabbed the dagger in his direction. "You dare, after all we built you up to be, and after all you did and ruined?" Inhaling slowly, she drew back and narrowed her eyes at him, dropping the dagger to her side, a cruel smile forming on her lips. "You speak of this unstoppable sword of yours; very well, I challenge you to test this sword and its strengths against me outside, where we may fight our cause with actions instead of petty words," she challenged fearlessly, every bit the warrior huntress her title predicted her to be.

"It would be my pleasure," Soldin bit back aggressively at her, elbowing his way through the people to follow after her as she led the way out. No fear touched him; only anger tainted by bloodlust, and a certain kind of warrior's joy began to form in the pits of his stomach. Finally, a fight. Despite these times of war, people seemed so picky about their fights. Racism was now apparently a thing to be frowned upon; how mer could be allowed to invade and inhabit the Nord realm Soldin would never understand. No longer could he attack a man for what kind of scum he was without getting an earful from some do-gooder or activist.

"You intend to fight me with a dagger?" Soldin jeered as several people from the tavern hurried out into the cold to watch, most men drunk on too much wine, their slurred yells forming the perfect backdrop for a fight.

"Does my confidence unnerve you barbarian?" Aela smirked, her body language mirroring the confidence she spoke of.

"Hardly, little girl. I just wished to do this with honour." Aela spat at his feet when he said that and quipped once again at him about how he lacked a single shred of honour. He felt no need to hold back; if he killed her, so what? He was no longer a Champion, it would not matter.

Those gathered seemed to see the problem however, remarking of such in the form of bitter jibes. Aela was not slight, but she was still armed solely with a dagger and her armour was designed for quick, clever fighting. Opposite her stood Soldin, a towering Nord man of over seven foot. He might be in his late forties, but he had the strength -evident in the size of his muscles- to show he could still swing a sword. His armour was not ornate but it was strong, forged from thick polished steel and moulded together to cover most of his body, leather gauntlets and bracers accompanying it.

Still, the onlookers were drunk and did not care so much about the decency of the fight, rather more about that there was one. When they cheered, they cheered for blood and violence, not for cleverness or wit. Soldin was naturally the favourite. "May Sovngarde have more mercy on you than I can find in myself to give," Aela prayed for him, apparently just as comfortable with killing him as he was with her.

In plain view she launched herself at him, starting the armed street brawl; they were lucky no guards were about to arrest them for public fighting. Trying to cleave her apart with his great sword and end this so he could return to drinking and women, Soldin hauled his weapon upwards, aiming at where she had been seconds ago. Unlike him however she was swift and long gone before his sword reached its target Amongst the drunken stupor it took his mind a while to catch up, and so by the time he was turning to relocate her she was already too close to him for it to be safe.

Cold metal touched to the unshaven skin of his neck. "For Godrel and Hrier," Aela whispered to him as he froze, realising he was about to die.

Before the Huntress could slit his throat however the heavens seemed to shatter into two, an almighty clap of roaring thunder echoing through the city. "What in the name of Talos-?" As Soldin stumbled back, gazing up at the sky, he realised it had not been thunder that had shaken through them all, distracting the woman who was about to bring him death and thus saving his life.

"Dragons," Aela breathed, lingering in a moment of awe before all hell broke loose.


End file.
